The Finding Home trilogy
by Sky Blue Angel
Summary: In which Wilson leaves, House doesn't cope and Wilson returns. But it's more complicated than that. House/Wilson
1. Gone

The office was empty, walls stripped of diplomas and bookshelf of books

TITLE: Empty  
AUTHOR: Danielle  
PAIRING: Gen  
RATING: G  
WARNINGS: Angst… yeah, angst  
SUMMARY: Wilson's gone. No one told House and now it's all wrong. Prequel to a href Lost">/users/thoughtthestars/135231.html#cutid1Lost and Found/a  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not at all. Wish they were, but not!  
NOTES: Beta-ed by Rachel, who's cool. Well, most of the time.

The office was empty, walls stripped of diplomas and bookshelf of books. House felt his throat constrict as he stared around the room. No sign Wilson had been there, the name scraped off the door. His ragged breathing echoed in the room. The sounds were hollow, weak and pathetic against the silence that raged. Cameron had closed the door with a click when she left, promising to check on their newest case. As the lock fell into place, his body shuddered.

Cuddy had pointed him to empty room when he came back from his break. It hadn't been long, a few days out with fever and no new cases. He'd been drawn back by the new case and rumors that had managed to reach his house. Whispers of a missing doctor, a new resignation that no one had seen coming. And his phone sat silent beside his couch, never ringing with a new case offering or an offer of cold pizza delivered after a long day of work.

And Wilson's office had been empty. Nothing left at all, not even a note or a sign the head of oncology had ever had that office. Cuddy had sighed and tried to explain why he'd left. House didn't listen. Shrugged her off and stood in the office. He tried to be silent, tried desperately not to disturb what the office had become. Dust had settled lightly on the once immaculate shelves. House was sure he could see every particle, could imagine each and every book that had been on that shelf.

"Jimmy." It was a breath, barely a word. But it still echoed through the room, filled the silence and the void. He hadn't even left a forwarding address. All House had was a hunch and nothing at all where his hope once had been. Chase's eyes had followed him as he stood in the elevator, impatiently tapping his cane.

Everyone else had known. No one had told him. And the office still stood empty. He had Chinese food in his fridge from the week before, rice and the noodles Wilson had ordered. Nothing had been out of the ordinary until he saw everything was wrong. They'd mocked each other, laughed together at old jokes no one else understood.

Cameron's knock at the door was tentative, nervous and rapid. She barely peeked through the glass, watching House's slumped back. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't even nod as she cracked the door open. "We have the test results. It can't be vasculitis." Her voice echoed in the office. Too high, even compared to Julie's shrill screams of the week before.

"I knew it." But the confidence is gone from his voice as he wrenches his attention away from the empty wall. "Try steroids anyway." The door closed with a click as Cameron heads out, leaving House staring through the glass. Soon, there'll be a new department head. There has to be, after all. Not like the oncologists can just work around Wilson's departure until he comes back.

The door opened as easily as it always had as he pushed it aside with the tip of his cane, scuffing the glass. James had sighed about that, rolling his eyes as House held the door open. The complaints had been groundless, the glass seamless and smooth. But it had been banter, laughter and something to say as they wandered down to their cars. No one else had understood. Foreman would point out that nothing was wrong with the door. Chase would just sigh, sometimes offering a laugh at Wilson's expense. And Cameron just watched them, uncomprehending.

No longer was the door adorned with James's name, his degrees, his position. It sat silent and bare, mocking. House popped a Vicodin, staring at the clear glass. He lifted the cane carefully, scratching at the smooth surface. Nothing changed. House pressed harder, scrapping the cane down the glass. A squeal followed, but no scratch. Nothing could mar the thick glass, not even his desperate efforts.

Cameron found him leaning on the glass, forehead pressed to the cool pane, cane still scrapping at the unchanged glass. He didn't move when she spoke, just closed his eyes and trembled. The sound had filled the room, squeak and squeals echoing as he struggled. But when he left for the night, limping heavily and glaring at anyone who dared glance his way, the glass was still seamless.


	2. Left

The angel floating over his shoulder had been silent for far too long

TITLE: Lost and Found  
AUTHOR: Danielle  
PAIRING: Mostly Gen but meant to be House/Wilson  
RATING: PG-13 for swearing  
WARNINGS: Vague pre-slash, angst, swearing, angst and a tiiiny bit of fluff  
SUMMARY: House was left alone, left with out a guide. And when everything falls apart, sometimes it can be put back together.  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, really!  
NOTES: (if any)

The angel floating over his shoulder had been silent for far too long. House had tried to ignore that lack of voice, the tiny and tinny sound that told him the right thing to do. But everyone misses something after a while. He could be no exception, sitting in his office and wondering what went wrong. The ducklings still smiled at him, empty smiles that he couldn't see beyond.

Case after case went wrong, weeks and months without a single illness treated, a single person saved. The job ends, tenure doesn't last when he's not working. But it doesn't matter anymore. It's his home, he paid it off right after the angel stopped speaking. Hoped that that might bring back the tiny voice. Nothing did.

Sometimes they visit him, knocking on his door and complimenting his décor with pity in their eyes. Everyone knows the voice stopped, they all know why he collapsed. The weight of his genius seems heavier sitting at home, worthless and useless and crippled. Consults start after a year of sitting in a darkened room and perfecting his piano playing, crocheting, sports statistic reading, General Hospital plot lines and everything else he could think of to do.

Doctors came to him with the bizarre, the impossible. And the answers eluded him until they stopped calling. Nothing came and he stopped talking, stopped trying. People started to forget him. His insults were caustic, meant to wound and drive away. Even Cameron stopped coming, after he screamed at her for flirting with Chase. He'd slammed the door and the paint had chipped off the wall.

Years later, bone thin and bone tired of living within his own little insular world, House heard a knock at the door. He'd stopped opening it after Cameron stalked out, Salespeople had nothing to offer, no comfort in the sound of a human voice. But the knock came again, insistent and echoing. Then the voice, that voice, came.

He flung the door open and saw that little voice personified, Wilson standing in his doorway and looking almost as bad as he felt. They didn't speak, just stared across the gulf of House's doorway. A ravine was open and neither wanted to cross. Then House lifted his hand and so did Wilson and they met in the center. The touch was tentative, less than a handshake and almost less than a brush of skin to skin.

"You never told me where you were." His voice trembles and House wants to scream. His hand drops back to his side, brushing the handle of his cane.

"You never asked." And Wilson's voice is trembling as well. The distance between them is nothing at all, a tiny step. But when their eyes meet House has to look away.

"Should I have?" And now his voice is steady, caustic as ever. Everything had fallen apart, the hope had gone.

"I don't know." Wilson turns away, turns to go. But house can't help it, grabbing that still familiar lab coat and tugging. "What?"

"Where are you?" It's a whisper and House hated himself for whispering. But Wilson's eyes light up.

"At my House." Wilson doesn't smile, doesn't laugh. Doesn't do any of those things the prince does when he returns to his princess to save her very soul. Just looks at House and touches his fingers, a light caress that's less than anything else and more than most everything. "You're a hard man to find."

"I never moved. I never went anywhere. How the hell couldn't you find me?" House's growling, a snarl as he whips around. The cane trembles on the ground, old and rarely used. "Not like I moved to Oregon. Not like I bought a farm with a wife who didn't even like me and got an unlisted phone number and chucked all my e-mail address. Hell, I didn't even move a floor down or a block away." And it's all gone wrong again, the little voice that had started again fading, falling away.

"You never asked." It's an accusation. "I would have told you." Wilson steps into the front room before House can slam the door in his face. "Five years House. You never even tried to find me?"

"629 Killins Avenue, Benton County, Oregon. Unlisted phone number, no cell phone, no internet connection. Two kids and a dog, three horses, ten dairy cows. A five bedroom house with room for entertaining. You must have saved a shit load of money to afford that." His breathing is under control, no matter how much it echoes in his own ears and chest. The world isn't spinning on its axis, at least no quicker than usual.

"And you never even wrote a postcard?" Wry amusement, something House had almost forgotten came with the innocent eyes and innocent face. "You sure could have done that. Not hard y'know. Pick up a pen, write down part of that. I would have liked to hear from you." The scuffing sound the follows, dress shoes on wooden floors, tells House the other doctor knows that was a mistake.

"You did? That's why you didn't tell me anything, right Jimmy? That's why I had to ask Cuddy. That's why I had to search the internet… Okay… have Cameron search the internet, at first, to find that out. Two kids? Surprise!" He can't turn around, eyes on the ground. "Get out of my house."

"Greg…" The pause is awkward, filled with the sound of shuffling feet and a tapping cane. "I named my son Greg. My daughter's name is Lisa. He didn't turn out anything like you. But she is a bit like Cuddy. It's kind of funny, neither of them ever met their namesakes." And the ghost of a laugh behind his words is overshadowed by each backwards step, each step back out of House's life. "Julie left me. They're not mine. I'd say the milkman, but it was actually the rancher next door." The tremble in his voice is gone, the volume growing louder. "She always hated you. Always said you felt the same way about me. I defended you."

"And then cut off all communication, moved and left me here. I understand! Where you protecting me, Jimmy? Keeping the big mean wifey away from the sensitive cripple?" He spins around again, can't help it. Wilson's staring. "Fuck you, James. Fuck you, Doctor Wilson. Protect me? Defend me? Am I some kind of fucking castle to you? I knew she hated me. Oh, did you think she was subtle about it?" His laugh was humorless, eyes half-closed. "You left me, Jimmy. Don't sugarcoat it with words and your usual sweetness. You left. And I needed you. I never wrote you. Did you write me? I promise you had my address. Unless you lost your address book. And memory. Did you? Did you do it all just to protect me, Jimmy?" It's vitriolic, no banter or kindness behind his words. House stands before his best friend, his only friend, until everything had fallen apart. "Huh, Jimmy?"

Wilson's silence says something the words couldn't, the tears on his cheeks shimmering in the mid-afternoon sun. "She left me. The kids aren't even mine." His voice trembles again, breaks. "None of it's mine. I don't have to pay alimony. I gave her the house, the dog, the horses, the cows. Cameron called me. She found my number. She moved up there, you know? A few years ago. There's a little place nearby that needed a doctor. She's doing well." He reaches out again, brushing his knuckles on House's arm. "There's nothing left."

"Nothing here either." House shakes his head, shaggy hair brushing his eyes. "Go home Jimmy, where ever that is. You won't find what you're looking for here." His cane nudges the doctor's foot, pushing against the shining shoe. "Go home."

"I'm here. And I'm not leaving. There's nothing there, Greg. Nothing left at all. I though I could find something out there, in the wilderness. I spent five years waiting for a postcard with your address on it. I sat for five years and denied that all I wanted was to see your cane tapping my desk again. Now I'm here. What do you want?" Wilson offers one of his patented smiles, eyes carefully closed.

House sighs, a soft sound that seems out of place in his empty home. "You can sleep on the couch. There's cold Chinese in the fridge. Touch my pork and die." The quiet acceptance in his voice isn't happiness, isn't anything close. But Wilson's smile brightens the room and slowly, slowly, the two friends make their way into the house, into their home.


	3. Saved

Days pasted in silence, House staying in his room

TITLE: Maybe Later  
AUTHOR: Danielle  
PAIRING: House/Wilson, Wilson/Wife  
RATING: PG-13  
WARNINGS: Slash (finally), kissing, angst, (maybe) fluff  
SUMMARY: Something broken can be fixed, sometimes. But it's best not to dwell on it or count on anything.  
DISCLAIMER: You'll know they're mine when there are giant orgies rather than medical cases.  
NOTES: Sequel to a href/users/thoughtthestars/135231.htmlLost and Found/a which is a sequel to a href/users/thoughtthestars/135567.htmlGone/a. Beta-ed by Rachel and re-read by me about 5 times. (Ummmm… if any of you have better title ideas? Feel free to share. I seem to have run out.)

Days pasted in silence, House staying in his room. Sometimes he came out for food, sometimes Wilson knocked on the door and left an offering of something right outside. Chinese food, cold pizza, homemade soup. The scents wafted into the room; late at night after the younger doctor had gone to sleep, House would push the door open a crack and grab the food. It tasted bitter as he sat alone on his bed, listening to the quiet snores wafting from the couch.

They never talked, rarely saw each other. The phone rang and Wilson answered, as though he'd always been there. But no one important called. Some salespeople and House refused to respond to the knocks on his bedroom door. Slowly the silence became customary, the chasm between as deep as it had been when they had inhabited different states.

The glances started when House left the room for food, stalking out in the middle of the day and doing his best to ignore Wilson's presence on his couch. The echoes of a baseball game filled the room, the screams of fans and the lists of scores. House just whipped open the fridge and grabbed a container of the Chinese food he'd smelled the night before. Wilson must have ordered enough for two, the containers taking up half a shelf.

"Any pork?" The question caught Wilson by surprise, House assumed. The tiny squeaking noise he made in response, something oddly close to a gag, may have been a hint. "Pork? Pig product? Holy animal?"

"No pork. Just chicken." Another strangled sound, deeper and slightly different then before. House almost laughed, grabbing the first box he found. It felt heavy, the tiny discoloring of sauce at the bottom proving he'd managed not to just grab white rice.

"Chicken? Is this some kind of metaphor now? And who does it apply to? You, me, Julie, Stacy?" His laugh was mostly silent, shoulders shaking without mirth. "Or for all of us, in our own special ways?"

"It's called food, House. It's often recommended by the best nutritionists." The comfortable banter is something they could barely recognize, quietly spoke words deflecting off well-made shields. It was almost like old times, but House wasn't smiling and Wilson couldn't meet his eyes.

"I've heard rumors." The food fell onto a chipped plate with a splat. They're looking in opposite direction, House's eyes on the plate and Wilson's on the TV. Uncomfortable silence lasted a moment, the sound of a knife scraping on cardboard echoing just under the scores recitations.

House turned back to his room, cane in hand and plate balanced precariously on top. "Well, now that this scintillating conversation has reached an end… I'll leave you to your work." It's something either of them would have said, back when their offices had glass doors and glass walls.

"What work?" The words rolled off Wilson's tongue, something all too natural and all too normal. Their eyes flashed to each other, barely meeting. A lock clicked as House forced his bedroom door open, eyes focused on the keyhole. "Come on, watch the game." His hand waved, motioning to the empty half of the couch. And it could all be normal again.

House hesitated in the doorway. The plate wobbled in his hand, cane pressed against his hip. The TV sounded far away, echoing quietly as he tried to choose. A few feet and he would be beside Wilson, sitting on the couch and watching the game. It would be like all those years ago, laughing in the oncology lounge. But the couch there had been scratchy and the TV a bit too small.

"I think I'll stick to eating in silence." The door closed behind him with a subtle slam, his foot twisting to kick it shut. A sigh followed, the only sound Wilson can think to make then. He twisted on the couch, squeaking the springs. House sat on the edge of his bed, sinking into the mattress. They exhaled at the same moment, a sound in harmony that neither one knows about.

And Wilson didn't sleep that night, sitting up at House's door and staring into the abandoned kitchen. The house was silent like it never was before, a layer of dust on the ground revealing uneven footsteps and the scuff of a cane. Around it lay undisturbed gray matter, a phrase that brought only House to his mind. They danced around each other in the home, pretending neither of them had ever done anything.

"Jimmy?" It was barely a question, not focused at the door. Wilson was on his feet and on the couch as House's door open. The older man limped out, leaning on the wall and bathed in the light of the muted TV. It was a ritual Wilson's never seen before. He watched through slitted lids as House settled into the chair next to the couch. Hands crossed in his lap and Wilson was sure he could see a pill cradled in the palm. "I quit, you know." It was a quiet confession, something less than what he'd expected. "Hoped you would come back because Cuddy promised to tell you, if she could." The pill rolls in his palm, white against his skin. "She never did. Just shrugged when I left and said you didn't return her calls. I saved this one and waited." He dropped the pill, the little white circle, onto the ground and watching it roll across the ground. "That's all Jimmy. You can sleep now. No need to listen to a cripple." He stood slowly, hand on the chair for balance.

The smile behind those words was sad and Wilson had to open his eyes. "You still know me too well." He sat up slowly, loosening the collar he'd forgotten to unbutton. "What gave me away?" House was barely standing in front of him, eyes on the ground and bad leg shaking. That he could see that weakness astounded Wilson, something he'd never expected out of the older doctor.

"You? Are a very bad liar." He pointed to the tie still around Wilson's neck, the way one leg still hung over the edge of the couch. "I know how you sleep, Jimmy. Can't confuse me like that." The pill bottle in his pocket was full as he popped it out. Wilson's face would have been worth much more than a thousand words if House had had a camera. "What?" The smile was cruel and the sound of the lid being removed even more so. It echoed through the empty home, a single pill rolling onto House's palm. "Think I confessed to you, knowing you were awake, out of the depth of my heart?" Behind those words, Wilson was almost sure, lay a world of hurt. And as the pill touched House's lips, he lunged forward.

The kiss was anything but gentle, knocking the cylinder into House's mouth as Wilson grabbed his hair. They fell together, one moan of pain and one of arousal mixing. A sweet taste swept over Wilson, sugar melting on his tongue. "Placebo?" The word was guttural, muffled by House's lips against his own. "A sugar pill?" He swiped a taste of House's lips as he pulled back, staring down at the panting man.

"Everyone lies, Jimmy. Everyone lies." The next kiss was sweeter, a brush of lips and House's fist wrapped around his tie. There was no pressure behind the soft moan. TV lights surrounded them, a bright commercial flashing well-wishing lies about the beer that lay on House's table. The only sound was Wilson's breathing, harsh and low. House gave him a smile that seemed kind.

The fingers wrapped around Wilson's tie tightened, tugging on the bit of fabric. Another brush of lips and House leaned back, eyes partially closed. They sat there, Wilson balanced precariously with a knee on the edge on House's chair and House leaning back until the TV went blank, the older man's fingers on the remote.

"Why lie?" His voice was barely a whisper, lips almost brushing against skin as he leaned to murmur against one ear. His breath ghosted across warm skin. "Why now?" House's breath caught in his throat as Wilson moved against the seat, pressing his knee against the inside of his thigh. "You knew I was awake, didn't you?" He brushed his cheek against House's enjoying the flutter of a pulse against his skin. "Or were you lying again?"

"Why'd you leave?" House's eyes were closed, his pulse rapid. A hitch in his breath was the only sign he felt Wilson's lips on his skin. Another tug at the tie as he leaned forward, pulling his head away from the back of the couch. "I bet Cuddy still misses you." His fingers slid along the silk fabric, just touching Wilson's throat. "You could even get your old job back."

"Don't want it." He trembled at the gentle touch, letting his forehead fall heavily onto House's shoulder. "It was supposed to be an experiment. Just leave for a little while and wait for you to call. Then we'd be penpals and I'd come back after the divorce. But you never called or wrote and we had kids." A laugh, harsh and sad as he pressed closer to the older man, almost burying his face in the scratchy shirt. "So I had to stay. What was I going to do?" His fingers clung to the armrests. "Then Julie told me. She waited years and years, waited until they had college saving accounts and Greg had an allowance and told me they weren't my own. Looked all apologetic and handed me the divorce papers with a smile." He wasn't crying. That wasn't the word for it as his hands almost ripped through the fabric on House's chair, face pressed so close he could almost feel the skin through the shirt. There were tears, but few and far between. "I left the next day. She didn't want alimony. Just the college money and the house and everything else but my dignity." He would have smiled if House's hand hadn't crept along his back, rubbing gently as it slunk to his neck, stroking just below the hairline.

"An experiment, Jimmy? Did our friendship mean so little?" He spoke loudly, lips pressed to Wilson's ear. "Or did your marriage mean so much?" Fingers pressed against the younger man's neck, rubbing light circles against the soft flesh. "Or was it something else?" His tongue slid just behind his ear, moistening the skin and almost nothing else. "Tell me, Jimmy. And don't lie. I can tell."

He snorted against House's neck, pressing closer and trying to relax. "Then why haven't you gotten rid of your stubble?" Aforementioned stubble was rubbing against the side of Wilson's neck. "It feels like rug burn." The fingers on the back of his neck tightened slightly, pressing against pressure points until he had to bite back a whimper. His muscles jerked, knocking his forehead against House's shoulder. "Thanks for that." The words were muffled by a mouthful of shirt.

"You know, you haven't answered my question yet." The smirk in that voice was obvious, fingers still pressed painfully against Wilson. "It's fairly obvious when you don't even mention the past that you're avoiding something. I'm not in the mood to avoid something. I gave up a secret. Your turn." Wilson knew what House's face had to look like, eyes bright and focused on the far wall. His smile would be subtle, just barely an upturning of lips that most people would never notice. "Share."

"I was tired." His fingers slipped off the armrests, brushing House's pant leg and settling on his thighs. "Tired of playing games and wondering and nursing the tingling in the bottom of my gut." One hand slid higher, touching seams and tracing the places he knew old scars to be. "I thought I was tired of you. Tired of your experiments and jokes and constant mocking words no one else ever understood." Wilson laugh into House's neck, a quiet, sad, defeated sound. "And I left. Only to discover that all I wanted to do was hunt down a third grader and goad him into bullying me."

"A third grader? I'm at least middle school level sarcasm with a high school diploma in mocking." House's voice had changed again, stronger as he slid his fingers along Wilson's neck. "So you were tired. And you solved this by buying a farm? I've heard rumors those are work." Wilson smiled against House's neck. The old humor was back in that voice, echoing in the room. All too familiar and the younger man was willing to simply sink into that sensation.

"Not as much work as dealing with you." He sighed in House's neck, closing his eyes and enjoying the scratch of old t-shirt on his skin. The older man didn't respond, just gave a quiet, mostly inaudible, chuckle and let his hand settle against Wilson's back. He gave the tie another tug, fingers braiding themselves around the cloth. They sat that way for hours, until House gave a little snort that sounded almost like a snore.

"Get offa me." Which was easier said than done, House's hand unwilling to release Wilson's tie. The temporary separation was a matter of feet, one man standing and the other still sitting, staring up. "You're here now? Want to do some apartment hunting?" And the discussion would come again, they both knew. But those times would be later and worse and different and that's what mattered. " Or is my couch better than your marriage bed?"

"Later." He offered the older man a smile and a hand, unsurprised when said hand is ignored for a grunt of pain and a bit on exertion. The hand slid off his tie to push off the chair. It feels like a lot like a loss. He took another step back, giving House room to stand. "Maybe later." An offered smile in the older man's direction wasn't returned. But a hand ran over his tie, smoothing the fabric to his chest.

Wilson didn't sit back down until after House had left, the lock on his bedroom door clicking shut. The couch felt warm, inviting. Home was where the heart is. And as he curled onto his side, grabbing a blanket to wrap around himself, he knew where his heart was. With eyes closed and the only hint of light a line under House's door that flickered out, he fell asleep to imagined sounds of another's breathing.


End file.
